On the way into the San Giuliano Ristorante in St. Julians, Malta, the walls are pasted in pictures of famous people. Famous old people. Famous dead people. But famous people still. How do I know? Well, I have eaten there, of course. I reviewed the place a couple of times. I also worked there.

Back in the nineties many of us did. At 5pm I would be laying the tables, preparing for the onslaught of the supper throng. San Giuliano may not have the lushest food on earth – the stories I saw in that kitchen may have had something to do with my opinion – but it certainly has an almost breathtaking position over Spinola Bay.

Every fifteen minutes the phone would ring. I would see the manager turning his back to the road and rolling his eyes towards his eyebrows. ‘Yes sir. Yes sir. Yes sir’ three bags full and he’d hang up. ‘Mona’ he would say, turning to me on the other side, wearing an imperious face 'Straighten that fork. Now’. ‘Wha…’ I’d begin. ‘Now!’. The fork was straightened.

Peter Darmanin lives across the road from a couple of his restaurants. I am writing this simply because the man’s house has been in Design & Décor and other interior magazines so it is not exactly like he is trying to hide his whereabouts. This positioning meant that he could manage the restaurants from a distance, using a pair of binoculars.

‘Who is Mr. Darmanin?’ I asked the manager on my second (and last) day at work. ‘He is the owner’ the manager replied ‘He likes to say he was Liz Taylor’s boyfriend but he really just slept with her. Their photos are on the wall’.  The photos were of several parties and the high life in Gstaad not of them in bed.

I always wondered about this story as I found its patheticness (yes I know that doesn’t exist) quite sad. It reminds me of this guy I met on a holiday in the Greek islands, many many years ago when breaking your leg after a night of Ouzo drinking, sleeping at 8am in a tent and eating nothing but a piece of cheese all day was normal. I don’t know if we had Mr. Darmanin’s five nights of bliss but we did have a fabulous fun time. Did I hang on to those memories for the rest of my life and give an interview to a national newspaper after he died? Erm…I can’t even remember the guy’s name.

Peter told The Times thus:’ “…that evening I moved into Elizabeth's Chalet Ariel for five days of wondrous bliss." Then, with his [sexy and rich-lite] vacation over and his wallet flat, Peter flew back to Malta. Had it really been so romantic, his secretary asked him. "Yes," said Peter, "and the minute I was there I knew I belonged." ‘

Bizarrely exactly the same text and the interview with Peter is here. I have no idea who copied what but either the newspapers are filching stuff from each other or Peter has something he copies and pastes each time he’s asked this question.

Liz was rich. The size of her diamonds prompted some of my friends to wonder today whether she would be buried with them. Peter is not poor but taking out a loan (he got terribly overdrawn while there, then came back and borrowed more money so he could go back and continue the ‘partying’) in order to continue a some more ‘days of bliss’ with one of the most famous women in the world then dining out on it for the rest of his life smacks of pathetic loneliness to me. His gift to her upon his return was a filigree Maltese cross. She did not appreciate it.

When he went back to meet her she ended up hitting him with the rock (aka diamond) she was wearing. She didn’t like his gift. She was being unfaithful to Richard Burton while sleeping with our Peter. She made him broke (or rather he made himself). Her dog bit him.

'She was so young' he said, referring to when she died. Of course she was Peter. So were you. That was three hundred thousand years ago. One would think you'd have moved on since then.

Yet here he is, almost 90 years old, and still reminiscing about their five days of bliss. I used to be scared of Mr. Darmanin, even though I was never in awe of his claim to fame or the celebrities he was meant to have hobnobbed with. Now I can’t help but feel like the man needs somebody to tuck him up in his bed, with his binoculars and a hot water bottle.